Harpie Harvest
by IcarusForgotten
Summary: She'll never cover up what we did with a dress" -- Marilyn Manson


Another nightclub

Another nightclub. Another woman. He was on fire.

He strolled into the seedy nighthouse, carrying a notebook and pen with the alibi of research, though lately his excuses have been growing thin and predictable. But hey, nobody really complained, nobody really wanted to notice at what was really going on, though from the contents of Jeriah's books everybody could just as well guess. He continues to stroll regardless.

The flashing lights found him first, though they've been bathing the women in perfection since the beginning of their shift, pulsing thick colours, never resting as they approached each woman from every possible angle, intimate and otherwise.

He took his regular seat and naturally the expected coos and physical wanderings found him, not sparing a second as they soon possessed his mind, blending with the rhythmic convulsions of artificial aura. It was mesmerizing.

Jeriah this and Jeriah that: all familiar voices, all familiar faces and thighs and breasts swooning around him, pushing forward to just _touch_ him, just a fraction of skin on skin, and to hopefully arouse him enough to let his guard down while they distracted him with the prospect of their smooth bodies and obsessive lack of clothing to pinch a few coins from his pockets. He rarely ever suspected as he was usually busy pinching their tight bottoms and nipples, but you'd think it would sink _in_ to a guy who came home (whichever shack or whorehouse he could find last minute) and find himself empty of valuable possessions.

But Jeriah never complained much. He liked the ladies. He liked to make them happy.

He sat smugly, with all the females feathering at his side. All but one, dressed in more . . . _conservative_ attire for a strip club, but sexy nonetheless. She sat with her legs crossed, her left thigh sitting high atop her other, glowing in the lights, the skirt inched with the fabric's resistance at the elevation of her leg. It wasn't much, but _man_ did it drive him wild to find out what was beneath that skirt, what exactly lay between her elegantly longlegs. She sat. the dress continued to fluidly flow upward, or maybe his mind was playing tricks on him as his eyes appraised her, but the dress was tight-fitting and compatible with her curves, emphasizing her hips (though seated) and her lovely breasts (though hunched) which weren't exposed very much, but he recognize the hint of a cleavage and his imagination manufactured the rest. He couldn't wait to verify the reality with his own fantasy. She sat. Her eyes were downcast, but she chewed her bottom lip so sensuously that he wished the light could stop for once so that he could clearly watch the tip of her teeth slowly grazing at her full bottom lip, sliding back and forth and around in small, disconcerning circles. Suddenly the light caresses seemed more like choke-holds, restraining him from this different beauty.

He excused himself (politely, for he was still in shock at figure sitting unaccompanied, unclaimed, waiting for him perhaps), but the females protested, stroking his manhood to persuade that _this_ is where he belonged. He would not be swayed, it was already too late: he was drawn like a moth to a light, though this particular light needed not switch nor outlet, for it was natural, like the sun. And he was falling in deeply.

--

He lay panting, still concealed in the warmth between her legs, resisting the urge to mechanically pull out because it felt good and right and he _liked_ it. He really did, with his cheek atop her breasts, just barely feeling the swell of skin brushing against his jaw whenever he fidgeted with breathing. It was heaven.

"Hey, beautiful, you never gave me your name." _Breathlessness_.

"It was never mine to give."

He tried to ponder this, but her chest rose and fell much more severely with her answer and he was efficiently distracted.

--

Another night. More random women but not the same from the previous night; yet he chose to amuse the flawless numbers, in turn partially subduing his craving for a specifically different set of limbs, desiring a much gentler touch to map out his masculinity rather than the furious carelessness of those night mares.

Though he wished desperately otherwise, it continued.

He walked from the women dissatisfied – dawn was slowly approaching. No signs of the angel from the night before. No evidence that she'd actually existed; he could have easily been drunk and intoxicated by the lights to have created the entire image.

_it was never mine to give . . ._

He stopped and turned, listen to the wind whisper intrusively, scattering the grains of sand around the path he had walked. Nothing. His imagination playing again, no doubt. But still, his skin twitched and his eyes gently roamed the remaining surroundings he'd passed while returning to the private sanctuary of yesterday's excessive memory. He paused then, hand on door handle, and the slight pressure on his shoulder was almost expected, so he didn't turn because whether or not it was real, he just wanted to pretend, reminisce in how familiar that hand was to the caresses he'd received the night before.

Still with his eyes closed, he entered, the figure following, not bothering to close the door. He just kept pretending, not really feeling the clothes being hurriedly removed from his body, nor the frantic kisses thrown at him, nor the way the fingers clutched at his skin and hair, connecting their bodies together; he just saw the woman from last night, experiencing only that scene, feeling only her body, _her_ silken skin and warm acceptance.

Only when he began to feel the pressure between his legs, hear the tearing of flesh and feel something warm and wet ejaculating at an alarming rate, did he open his eyes: she was there, hovering above him, her hair sweeping delicately over his cheekbones and shoulders, and he cold feel _everything_ now, because this was reality.

So the pain from the red ejaculation wasn't really a surprise, because he'd felt that during his fantasy, but he was caught by her smile and had no choice but to listen:

"A pig is a pig, no matter if trapped by den or by fertilizer. Both can be run-down with hawks." Her smile was tainted now, and he wished he could return to his fantasy where he had been blind; the sun was burning his eyes, and the distorted tears, try as they might, couldn't wash away his sight.

"I loved you."

Silence.

"You knew it, didn't you?"

Her smile faltered.

"Were you just afraid? To love?"

"No – you were afraid. Of the commitment it would have taken. You would have realized and ran away, just like the pervert you are. Just like all the other girls."

She drew away and turned, not bothering to dress or even glance into a mirror. Walking away.

Walking.

Away.

With him still inside her.


End file.
